


I Believe I Am Your Doctor

by mycrofic (iceprinceofbelair)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Affection, Caring Sherlock, Doctor John, Gen, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Influenza, Kidlock, Pneumonia, Poor Mycroft, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sick Mycroft, Sickfic, for once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 08:26:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1503632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceprinceofbelair/pseuds/mycrofic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is surprised to find Sherlock is worried about his brother when the illness really hits him in the living room of 221B. Apparently Sherlock has feelings after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Believe I Am Your Doctor

Sherlock doesn't cease his violin playing when Mycroft's incessant babble stops seemingly without reason. He smirks. Clearly he wins this round.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock turns around at then note of concern in John's voice to find his brother swaying on his feet, his umbrella taking most of his weight before his body gives out entirely. John's darts forward and wraps his arms around Mycroft instinctively, feeling him become a dead weight against his chest. As carefully as he can, he lowers him down onto the sofa and pulls his legs up after him so he's horizontal.

He checks for a pulse. A little erratic but nothing John considers to be too worrying. And, God, he's hot.

Not in that way. John does not have the hots for Mycroft Holmes. No, his skin is burning with fever and there's a thin veil of sweat beginning to form on his brow. His breathing sounds congested. John frowns. He's always had Mycroft pegged as the type to push through a potentially fatal disease just to get the perfect attendance award. Apparently, he was right on the money.

When John looks round, Sherlock is still standing by his armchair, staring at Mycroft with an unreadable expression on his face. John tries offering him a smile but Sherlock looks right through him.

"Sherlock?" John says, clearing his throat when Sherlock snaps out of his daze. "He's alright. Don't worry. I think it's probably a bad case of the flu."

Sherlock nods, muttering, "Of course," repetitively under his breath. John doesn't ask why. He's silent for a moment, chewing on his lip.

"Help me move him?" He asks eventually and is glad to note Sherlock's response is immediate. John hooks his arms under Mycroft's and gives Sherlock a nod so they lift him at roughly the same time. It's an unspoken agreement that they take him to Sherlock's room instead of attempting to cart him upstairs and Sherlock tucks his brother in with such gentleness that John is momentarily stopped in his tracks. When he watches Sherlock feel Mycroft's forehead with the back of his hand, he thinks he might just go ahead and explode from the strangeness of it all.

The Holmes brothers just were not affectionate. Though, their relationship often has John second guessing what he sees. It's just bloody weird.

Mycroft stirs as John leaves the room to find the thermometer.

"Wh- what?" He tries to struggle against the retraints of the duvet but Sherlock presses firmly on his shoulders. Mycroft takes the hint and falls still, gazing at Sherlock with glassy eyes. Sherlock smiles.

"You're sick, My. But I've got you a doctor," he explains, slipping in the childhood nickname Mycroft had only condoned when he'd felt under the weather. He'd always said it soothed him to be reminded of Sherlock's childhood vibrancy. It will never be denied him. "Go back to sleep."

Sherlock strokes Mycroft's cheek with the back of one finger and they share a rare moment of brotherly intimacy before John drops something loudly in the kitchen and Sherlock is startled back into reality. He pulls his hand away sheepishly and Mycroft doesn't have time to protest before sleep takes him away again. Sherlock takes a deep breath before he joins John in the kitchen.

"He woke up briefly," he informs him matter-of-factly and John nods. "Sleeping again now. Fever's moderate; 101.3, I'd say."

John rolls his eyes and offers a triumphent, "A-ha!" as he waves the thermometer aloft in pride. It's nice to have a second opinion. He heads back into the bedroom again with Sherlock tagging along behind. Slowly, he eases the thermometer under Mycroft's tongue and perches on the edge of the mattress. He doesn't even stir.

At Sherlock's next words, John almost falls off the bed.

"I think he should stay for a while."

John is actually starting to worry a little about Sherlock's behaviour. He may not be able to read a person's backstory by a stain on their tie but he knows concern when he sees it and Sherlock has it written all over his face. He hadn't even thought Sherlock capable of such affection.

As a doctor, of course, he agrees. But, as a friend, he feels it's appropriate and necessary to pry a little further.

"What's brought this on?" He asks, pressing the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead teasingly. Sherlock tenses uncomfortably. John frowns. "You're not exactly prone to outbursts of brotherly compassion."

Sherlock looks distant and John sighs after a minute of silence, giving up hope on receiving a reply.

~

_Mycroft had been coughing for three days. Mummy said it was because he had the flu. (Sherlock had looked it up upon being told this and learned everything he could about Influenza in one day.) Sherlock's books said a cough was common. But Mycroft's didn't sound like the one they'd described. It was damp and crackly in his lungs. Sherlock didn't like it and, judging by the way Mycroft clutched his chest in pain, he didn't like it either._

_"My?" Sherlock whispered from the doorway where his head barely reached the handle. His brother flashed him a weary smile._

_"Hello there," he croaked. "Don't get too close. This is a nasty bug."_

_Sherlock ignored Mycroft's advice as always and padded across the wooden floor to scramble into the bed beside him. Mycroft rolled his eyes, beginning to clear away some of the used tissues which lay abandoned on his duvet. He gave an experimental sniffle at which Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Influenza didn't sound like fun._

_"What am I going to do with you?" Mycroft sighed fondly, letting Sherlock snuggle into his side. He ruffled his curls affectionately._

_It didn't take long for Mycroft to succumb to another coughing fit. Each fit seemed to be worse than the last. Sherlock winced in pain at the very sound of it as did Mycroft when it was over. Sherlock wrinkled his nose._

_"Does it hurt terribly?" He asked with wide eyes._

_"Not too much," Mycroft replied but they both knew he was lying. Sherlock always knew when his big brother wasn't being honest and this was definitely one of those times. He sighed._

_"My book says it shouldn't sound like that," he told Mycroft solemnly. "It says coughing but not hacking up your lungs."_

_On any other day, Mycroft would have laughed at that but he just felt so run down. And there was also the possibility of triggering another impending coughing fit which he definitely wanted to avoid at all costs._

_"Does it now?"_

_Sherlock nodded. "It says you've got pineumoina."_

_Mycroft smiled despite himself. "It's pneumonia, Sherlock. Silent 'P' and 'ohneeyah' at the end."_

_"Well, that."_

_"I think your book might be right," he admitted softly and Sherlock's arms around his middle tightened._

_"Do you need a doctor, My?" Sherlock's voice was small, timid. He nibbled on his thumbnail nervously and Mycroft just didn't have the energy to stop him._

_Just as quietly, Mycroft murmured, "I think so."_

_And then Sherlock was gone in hot pursuit of a telephone._

_~_

"You were right."

John watches Sherlock no doubt pull himself out of his mind palace and blink in the sudden light. He looks at John in confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

John holds up the thermometer which reads precisely 101.3. Sherlock tries - but doesn't quite manage - a smug smile and mutters that he'd said so all along. John smiles fondly, knowing Sherlock's distraction is no doubt down to his emotions getting the better of him. It's a pleasant surprise to see him react like he might just be human for once.

"In answer to your question, no, I'm not prone to such outbursts at all," Sherlock says thoughfully. "But the last time I saw Mycroft so ill-"

John places a hand encouragingly on Sherlock's arm and tries not to be disappointed when his voice slips back into its usual neutrality while he recites the facts like they're detached from him.

"Influenza coupled with pneumonia. Very nearly required hospitaliasation but he pulled through the worst of it before that became necessary. I called the doctor, though. Mycroft said I could watch the examination."

Sherlock sighs and John can't resist a smirk.

"So, you want to keep an eye on him?" He asks somewhat teasingly and Sherlock immediately slips into the defensive.

"Don't be ludicris," he cries, vehmenently denying such a suggestion. When Mycroft stirs, he lowers his voice again almost apologetically. "I am not one for sentiment."

John rolls his eyes with a knowing smile. "Fine. _I_ want to keep an eye on him," he says by way of compromise and Sherlock nods once purposefully before he sweeps from the room.

~

Once they've managed to keep Mycroft awake for long enough to change into a pair of Sherlock's pyjamas, John organises a glass of water and several different medications which he leaves lying on Sherlock's bedside table for Mycroft to use at his leisure when he wakes.

Sherlock sleeps in John's room. John sleeps on the couch.


End file.
